


where's the obvious light

by kinsie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Lost Love, M/M, reconnection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 01:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21066905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinsie/pseuds/kinsie
Summary: Sometimes, history is better left untouched. Other times, it rises to the surface despite your efforts, takes ahold of you and never lets go.In which fathers and sons are more alike than they know.





	where's the obvious light

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Liza Anne's I'm Tired, You're Lonely. Listen for a good cry.

“I’m engaged.” 

As soon as Scorpius says it, the tension that had been knotting itself into a ball in his chest during the day, in anticipation for dinner when he’d _tell t__hem_, drops like a dead weight through his stomach and onto the dining room floor.

His mother looks up sharply; she doesn’t miss a beat. “To the Potter boy?” she asks. Her dark eyebrows are drawn into a frown, eyes severe.

Scorpius sighs. “Yes, mother.” 

The only other time he’s mentioned Albus to his parents was two years ago, after seventh year had come to a close. He and Albus had got together long before that, and his parents knew that they were close, but not the extent of the closeness. Scorpius’ grandfather was told everything about the happenings in the Malfoy family, from his perch in his wheelchair in the drawing room, and then from his bed, up in the north wing. Scorpius didn’t want to risk it.

Yet, his family had to know some day. Without Hogwarts, Scorpius’d had no excuse to see Albus more than mere friendship warranted, he’d had no explanation for why they went away for days at a time, to Cornwall and Skye and Calais. Worse, Scorpius was tired of pretending. He loved Albus more than he could say, and for his parents not to know that, was for them not to know him at all.

Scorpius hasn’t given any insight into the intensity of their relationship- how hard they’d fallen, and how quickly- until now. There’s no talk of love when his grandfather is in the house, and he has been since Scorpius was a baby. He can’t remember a time when his grandfather wasn’t there, sickly and grey, with half a soul and a skeleton atrophying into nonexistence. His presence hangs over the house like a poisonous cloud, and his family tiptoes around him like they’re rabbits, not the snakes they claim to be.

Albus doesn’t have the same problem. He owled his father mere hours after they’d shared their first kiss, much to fourteen-year old Scorpius’ embarrassment, and hasn’t stopped owling him about them since. Albus’ family accepted Scorpius without a word, never asking about his own, never requiring anything more from Scorpius than himself, and his love for Albus.

There’s a _clink _from the other side of the table, and he’s brought back to the scene before him; Scorpius’ father has dropped his spoon into his soup. His grandmother still hasn’t said a word. 

Scorpius’ mother looks at his father almost apprehensively, worrying her napkin in her hands as his father looks down into his bouillabaisse. When he shows no sign of acknowledging what has been said, she turns her attention back to Scorpius.

“You’re getting married.” It’s a statement rather than a question. 

“Yes, mother,” Scorpius repeats, tiredly.

“You’re nineteen!” she hisses. “You’re barely of age, how could you know for certain what you want to eat for breakfast, let alone with whom you wish to make this commitment? How could you make this decision without us: to fling your legacy at this- this _boy-_”

“Astoria.”

Scorpius’ father’s voice is quiet. His mother looks at him; the worry on her face is back, as if she thinks he might cry, or throw something. His father does neither. Instead, he asks Scorpius something he’d not for a moment imagined he would.

“Do you love him?”

Scorpius looks at his father, and remembers the weekend before. There had been no fanfare about it all; it’s not Albus’ style, nor his. Instead, it had happened on the grounds of Scorpius’ Healers’ Academy, among the foxtails, as they lay sprawled on their backs under the sun. Albus had rolled over, pulled out a ring box and asked him right then and there. It was sudden, hurried, and Albus had barely got the full sentence out before he was toppling back onto the grass, Scorpius on top of him, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his lips. He remembers the sun beating down on them, casting a warm glow upon his back. He remembers his voice, thick with tears. _Yes_, he’d said shakily. _A thousand times, yes._

“Yes,” Scorpius tells his father. 

The expression on his face is impassive, before it softens imperceptibly. “Then that’s all that needs to be asked, isn’t it?”

His mother looks as if she might scream. Scorpius hopes she doesn’t. He’s too busy trying not to get up and fling his arms around his father.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she says tightly instead, “I think I might retire to bed.”

She presses a stiff kiss on his grandmother’s cheek, then Scorpius’ and his father’s.

“Good night,” he says, and his mother nods jerkily. She turns on her heel and blazes out, robes billowing behind her. His father won’t be joining her; they haven’t shared sleeping quarters since Scorpius was born. 

“Congratulations, darling.”

It’s Scorpius’ grandmother. Her hands are shaky as she tucks an errant strand of silver hair behind her ear. The heavy sapphire on her ring finger glints as she does it. “I’m so very happy for you.”

Scorpius rises out of his seat. “Thank you, grandmother,” he says, bending to kiss her and clasp her hand when she reaches for his.

Then, he approaches his father. Scorpius wraps his arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, Dad,” he whispers. His father looks up from the bowl of bouillabaisse à la Italian cutlery, and smiles.

“I’m glad you’ve found each other,” he says.

Scorpius squeezes, before letting go. “As am I.”

***

Scorpius doesn’t go to bed. Instead, he apparates to Grimmauld Place, where Albus is staying with his father until he and Scorpius find a place of their own. They’ve been looking to the country, somewhere quiet and near the sea.

“_Scorp_,” Albus breathes when he opens the front door, tugging Scorpius across the threshold and into his arms. “How did it go?”

Scorpius pulls back to look at him, not letting go of his arms. Just as he’s about to reply, Albus’ dad comes down the stairs.

“Hello Scorpius,” he says, green eyes twinkling, “and congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mr Potter.”

“Surely _now _you’ll call me Harry, given that you’re marrying my son.” 

Scorpius blushes, and Albus grins. “Can’t think why he said yes,” he says.

“Neither can I,” Mr Potter- Harry- replies, quirking an eyebrow at Albus’ bird’s-nest hair, ratty shorts and a t-shirt Scorpius is pretty sure is Ginny’s, and then Scorpius’ immaculate dinner attire. “Tea, boys?”

***

“Was your grandfather there?” Albus asks, curled up next to Scorpius on the sofa. Harry is in an armchair across from them, with Bear at his feet- the Belgian Sheepdog he got after the divorce.

Scorpius shudders. “No, I’d never have dared to come out with it in front of him.” He tucks his feet under Albus’ thighs, smiling a little when Albus turns to him, looking so much like the ever-loyal, ever-gentle Bear. “He might be immobile, but he can still do magic,” Scorpius continues. “After dad- after what happened all those years ago, he’s been hell-bent on saving the Malfoy name- or what’s left of it. I think you’d end up having to scrape bits of me off the dinner table, if you really wanted to marry me after _he_was finished with me.” He smiles wryly. “No offence, Al. It’s just- you know how my grandfather is.”

Albus grins unapologetically, relinquishing his grip on his mug to take Scorpius’ hand. “None taken.”

Harry clears his throat quietly. “How did Draco- ah, your father- take it?” His eyes flicker from their twined hands to Scorpius, and despite the careful smile, he looks almost- _tired_.

“He was fine with it,” Scorpius says, and something in Harry’s expression wavers. “I think he was a little surprised at first- he took a while to say anything at all- but yeah, he’s okay with it. He said he was glad we’d found each other.”

Harry’s mug, which had been halfway to his lips, stops abruptly.

“…Dad?”

Albus’ father puts down the mug, and Scorpius thinks he sees his hands shake a little. “I- I’m happy to hear that,” he says, after a moment. “I knew he would be. He- he wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.” He looks as if he’s about to say something else, but appears to think better of it. “I think I’ll turn in for the night. You’re welcome to stay over, Scorpius.”

“Thanks, Mr Potter." 

“’Night, Dad.”

“Good night, boys.”

When Harry leaves, Bear loping adoringly in his wake, Scorpius turns to Albus. “Does your dad still speak to my father?” 

Albus frowns. “I don’t think so. He’ll mention your dad sometimes, but I don’t think they’ve spoken in years. Why?”

Scorpius looks down at their hands, brushes a thumb over one of Al’s knuckles. “I don’t know, he just spoke about him like he knows him- _properly. _Dad doesn’t let anyone know him properly.” 

“’S’just how my Dad is, I guess. Harry Potter and all that.”

“I guess so.”

Albus wriggles closer, pulling their hands into his lap. “Where’s your ring?” he asks, after a moment.

“Oh.” Scorpius starts, pulling the band out of his trouser pocket. “I took it off before dinner. I didn’t want anyone to notice it before I could tell them properly, and possibly have a stroke.” He hands it to Al. “Put it back on for me?” 

Albus smiles, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “It would be my pleasure.” He slips it on, the metal cool against Scorpius’ skin, before it’s warmed again by the press of Albus’ lips. Within moments, Scorpius finds himself being tugged into his lap, yelping at the sudden change in position. Albus’ face is mere inches away. “Hello,” he says, before kissing him, _hard_.

Scorpius melts into it easily, fingers snaking up Al’s neck and into his hair. Their movements are slow, gentle and well-practiced; they’ve known each other’s bodies for years now, each other’s lips even longer. Scorpius rocks forwards, knees digging into the back of the couch as Albus rucks his dress shirt up. 

“Al…” 

“What,” murmurs Albus against his neck, breath hot and slightly laboured.

“Your dad’s upstairs.”

Albus sucks a searing kiss into the crook of his collar, all teeth and tongue, and laughs when Scorpius bucks involuntarily. “He’ll be out cold, and anyway, I think he knows from experience that it’s best not to, er, disturb us when we’re alone.”

Scorpius couldn’t think of an argument if he tried; Albus’ lips are infuriating, dancing along his jaw and capturing his own again. Scorpius settles further in his lap, pushing his hips close, savouring the rough pressure. He licks into Albus’ mouth, grinning against his lips when a particularly forceful grind leaves Albus gasping.

“_Fuck_, Scor-”

Scorpius’ trousers are thin, and Albus’ worn shorts are even thinner. He can feel him: hard and heavy and damp against the front of his shirt. Scorpius trails his lips down Al’s jaw as he increases the press of his thrusts, Al coming up to meet him with his hips in tandem. He finds way to the base of Albus’ neck and stays there, breathing hard, pushing down, down, down, until Albus is scrabbling at his back, sweat-soaked cotton catching against his fingers.

“Oh, _Al_,” Scorpius manages, squeezing his eyes shut as Albus bucks once, twice and then shakes against him, Scorpius joining him in delirium only moments later. They collapse into each other, chests heaving.

As the light starts to clear from behind Scorpius’ eyes, the rest of the world slowly comes back into focus. The fire has dimmed down to glowing embers, and the walls are awash with an umber glow. Albus runs one hand up Scorpius’ back, and pushes his hair back with the other, palm coming down to cup his cheek.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough with exertion.

Scorpius presses his forehead against Albus’ and laughs shakily. “Never better.”

They stay like that for a while, until the dampness between them becomes decidedly less hot and wet, and more uncomfortable and tacky, and one of them is forced to whisper a cleaning charm.

“Will you stay?” asks Albus, against Scorpius’ chest. 

“I’d love to,” Scorpius says, Albus’ hair tickling his nose, “but I sort of feel bad abandoning dad tonight, after he was so accepting. When my grandfather’s not feeling up to it, mother likes to take on the role of Big Bad. Sometimes I think that’s why he chose her: he saw her hidden potential.”

“Does he love her?”

“Who, my grandfather?”

“No, your dad.”

Scorpius looks down at Albus, and sees a boy who’s never lived without love, who’s never known a world where money and status take precedence over something so finite and capricious as the human heart.

“He cares for her,” he says, and knows he hasn’t answered the question.

“You’ll still love me, won’t you?” Albus asks. “When we’re old, like our parents? You won’t- you won’t leave me?”

Suddenly, he sounds like the boy Scorpius knew years ago, trapped in the shadows of his brother and father, heartbroken over the fissure in his family, crying himself to sleep in Scorpius’ bed.

“Never,” Scorpius breathes, and he’s never meant something so much in his life.

***

The ceremony is held at the Burrow, under an ivory marquee, surrounded by the orchard on the Weasley’s estate. During harvesting season, the apple trees experience rampant Cornish pixie infestations, rendering the land near useless, but in the spring, they blossom delicately, feather-like branches reaching up as if to stroke the clouds.

Scorpius picks a blossom out of Albus’ hair as they pose for a picture, newly-forged rings casting sunlight into the lens of the camera. They laugh and kiss, arms tight around one another, and Lily grins from behind the giant thing, miming wiping away tears.

Scorpius turns to Albus when they’re done. “I want us to take one with dad,” he says. “Let me go and find him.” He presses a butterfly of a kiss to Albus’ cheek and drinks in the image of his _husband_, flushed and giddy and glowing in white robes, before going in search of his father.

His dad isn’t under the marquee, nor is he out at the tables before the rows of blossoming apple trees. Scorpius doubts his father would have reason to go inside the Burrow, nor would he ever apparate home without telling Scorpius first.

He decides to head out into the trees. Scorpius’ dad might have been in search of some space. It sounds like him- sometimes he’ll stay out in the Manor gardens for hours on end. As Scorpius ventures out further, the noise from the wedding dims, and the heady scent of the apple blossoms rises. He’s thinking of giving up and heading back (and perhaps grabbing Albus to bring him here), when he hears the low murmur of voices from up ahead.

He steps closer, and his heartbeat quickens. Through the blossoms and the low hanging branches, Scorpius sees his father, up against a tree. In front of him, barely a hair’s breadth away, is Albus’ father.

Harry’s hand reaches towards his father, up to his face, and pushes his hair behind his ear. Scorpius’ breath catches in his throat. He feels as though he’s jumped ahead twenty years; Harry looks so much like Albus, and his father, himself. And Harry’s looking at his father like Albus looks at him.

Scorpius watches in shock as he puts his hands on his father’s shoulders, leans up to press a kiss to his temple. His father turns his head and catches Harry’s lips with his own. His eyes fall shut and his body nearly falls into Harry’s and Scorpius has never seen his father look so _open_, yet so- lost.

It’s almost as though someone’s pulled the ground out from under Scorpius’ feet.

“_Harry_-” his father breathes, and he sounds vulnerable, _exposed_.

Only when hands start to wander and the kisses grow more insistent does Scorpius turn away, blindly making his way back to the marquee. The last thing Scorpius hears is Harry, asking sadly, “Where would we be now, if you’d said yes to me all those years ago?”

***

By the time Scorpius finds Albus again, there’s a weight in his chest the size of a quaffle and tears threaten to breach his lashes.

“Scor?” Albus asks, a furrow of worry appearing between his dark brows. “What’s wrong?” He reaches a hand out to Scorpius’ face, and he’s reminded once again of Harry, reaching out to touch his father, his heart written all over his face.

“I need to tell you something. Where can we talk?”

They end up in the kitchen of the Burrow, surrounded by food that hadn’t got Molly’s approval and decorations that the little ones had made, and subsequently disfigured beyond recognition. Scorpius and Albus sit up on the counter. Since he’d taken a hold of it, Albus hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Will you tell me what this is about?”

Scorpius looks at him, into the Potter-green eyes, and tells him.

***

“Do you- do you think they’re… together?”

Albus almost sounds _betrayed_. He’s long since hopped down from the counter, and has instead started pacing, ivory robes tangling at his feet.

“I don’t think so,” Scorpius says. “They didn’t look like they were just- _seeing_each other. It was more than that.” He takes a breath. “I thought my father was going to cry.”

Albus looks at his hands, rubbing at his fingers, the glimmer of the ring disappearing under his agitated movements. “I can’t believe he never told me,” he says finally. “All this time, and-”

Scorpius reaches out to him. “Come here.”

Albus walks towards him, into the V of Scorpius’ legs. He takes his hands. “Whenever he mentioned your dad, it was always to say something good about him. Mum would- she’d talk about your dad, and your great-aunt and your grandfather especially, and the things that happened during the war, but Dad would never let her say a bad word about your father. Mum always said he had an overdeveloped sense of loyalty.” He squeezes Scorpius’ hands, brushes his thumbs over the pale skin. Then, Albus looks up at him, almost desperately. “Oh God, I used to talk about you. I used to tell him everything about you- how you spoke, how you laughed, the things we did together…” A tear escapes from the corner of his eye, and Scorpius brushes it away with shaking fingers. “He never told me,” Albus repeats, “and all he did was _listen _when I raved about the son of the man he-” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Did you ever suspect? If he spoke about my dad…”

Albus takes a deep, shaky breath. “I guess I knew there was someone, or had been someone, at some point. Mum and Dad loved each other, but there was more to why they didn’t work out, we all knew it. They said they were unhappy together, but Dad was unhappy long before and long afterwards. He’d sit out in front of the fire for ages, just staring. Or when he came to visit us at school, he’d disappear for hours on end, and then come back all cold and wet and not really _there_, you know? Dad doesn’t like to be lonely, but he likes to be alone, with only his memories for company.” 

“Do you think they’ve ever met up since- since whatever it is that happened between them?”

Albus shakes his head. “Dad might not tell me much about his past, but he’ll tell me everything else. And besides, he wouldn’t have any reason to hide seeing your dad, except, perhaps, _why _he’s seeing him.” He presses his forehead to Scorpius’ temple, inhales. “Why didn’t it work out? If they still love each other-”

“It must have been too complicated,” Scorpius says, and he feels a phantom tear in his heart as he imagines what it would be like to leave Albus, as he imagines the crippling heartbreak. “Sometimes, life gets in the way.”

Albus looks down at their hands. “There can’t be any such thing. Loving _is _living.”

***

“Where would we be now, if you’d said yes to me all those years ago?”

Draco laughs thickly, back pressed up against the smooth tree bark, front pressed up against Harry. “In a cottage up on the moors, probably, me with my potions and you- you with your Auror-ing. Alone together. Away from all…” he gestures between them, to the marquee where his mother and wife are, “…this.” 

“We wouldn’t have the boys,” Harry says quietly, as if realising it for the first time. “At least, not as they are.”

“No, we wouldn’t.”

Harry looks up at him, and Draco wonders how he lived for so long without this. “They looked so much like us, on the podium, during the bond. I almost felt as though I was…”

“…seeing what could have been?”

Harry nods. “Draco,” he says, running a hand up his chest, “do you think we made the wrong decision?” 

“I-” Draco feels torn. His heart is heavy, aching, and somehow, it’s the only thing the truth comes down to. “For purely selfish reasons, yes. We could have had- we could have had everything.”

“But not all of this,” finishes Harry. “Our children, the boys, our families.”

“What has been done is done.” This isn’t a good enough response, and Draco knows it.

“Why didn’t you respond to my letters?” Harry asks, suddenly. “I sent you them for years, almost drove myself _insane_, Draco, why didn’t you so much as-” 

“You married Ginevra.”

“_Years _after you married Astoria!”

“Yes, but I didn’t love her,” and Draco feels like they’re eighteen again, torn between different worlds, unable to understand each other, unable to compromise. Too lost in love to see sense, too angry at the world that wouldn’t just let them _be_.

“I loved Ginny, yes,” Harry says, “but not how I loved you.”

“Loved,” repeats Draco, and he should have known, should have been more careful than to let himself hang on to the memory of Harry for so long-

“Love,” corrects Harry. The blood returns to Draco’s body. “I never stopped, not even when you broke my heart.”

“I broke mine too, that day.” Draco remembers little of it, apart from the searing pain, the ache in his heart and in his head, the overwhelming feeling of _loss_.

“Do you still have it?” Harry asks quietly, and Draco knows without question what he’s speaking of. He lifts his left hand, palm down, to expose the ornate heirloom stone on his ring finger. Harry’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. Draco watches his face as he taps the ring to lift the disillusionment charm, watches as it unveils a simple silver band. “_Draco_,” breathes Harry, and he brings a hand up to touch Draco’s hand.

Draco feels almost paralysed. The last person to put that ring on his finger, touch his hand in that way, was Harry. _He _hasn’t taken it off, hasn’t touched it, since. He can’t bring himself to. Draco is about to say something, _anything_, but then Harry is right up against him, pulling his face close, kissing him like they’re seventeen and tired and _oh_, so lonely.

They press and gasp and _take_, lips folding into bruising kisses. Draco’s missed this, God, he’s missed _Harry_. Their hands fumble for purchase, grabbing at stiff robes and sharp bones. The air between them is thick and treacle-like, and Draco’s finding it hard to breathe. Harry kisses down his neck, into the collar of his shirt, and he thinks that’s where he’ll stop. But Harry keeps going, hands drawing reverently across his body as if he’s making up for decades of lost touches.

Harry ends up kneeling, pressing his forehead against Draco’s thigh, eyes squeezed shut. Draco, already overwrought with heartache and desire, could almost cry at this image of open supplication. “_Darling_,” Draco says, and Harry stares up at him, keeps staring as his hand skates up to the tiny buttons of Draco’s trousers, as he mouths over the evidence of Draco’s desire. 

Draco arches into Harry’s touch, gasps as air hits his damp skin, cries out as he’s swallowed up by Harry. His mouth is hot and wet and sure, and Draco’s hands find their way into his thick hair. Draco feels as though he’s drowning; the sweet smell of the apple blossoms, Harry’s roving hands, his careful mouth- it’s easily too much after decades of barren _emptiness._

The heat rushes down his spine like a tidal wave. He finds himself crying out Harry’s name as he’s pulled to a blistering climax that pulses through his body like a different kind of magic. Draco wants to urge Harry up onto his feet, to touch him, to kiss him as he comes, but his legs feel like jelly and he’s trembling uncontrollably. He looks down to see Harry pressing his temple against Draco’s thigh, coming at Draco’s feet in deep, shuddering gasps.

When it’s over, Draco tugs him up and kisses him softly. Harry pulls away, eyes clouded with worry. Only when he cups Draco’s face, brushes his thumbs against his cheeks, does Draco realise he’s crying.

“You’re okay,” Harry whispers, as the tears keep coming; a silent flood. “I’m here now.”

They stay like that for what feels like hours. The sky has started to blush pink, clouds glowing golden as they blanket the setting sun. Draco wonders if Scorpius has been looking for him. He hopes he’s not too angry about his father disappearing on his wedding day.

“Will you stop running?” Harry asks, eventually.

“I- I’m still married, Harry.” The reminder feels as cold as ice.

“I won’t ask you to leave your wife- I couldn’t.” Harry takes a breath. “It’s just that it’s taken so long for us to come back to each other- it took our sons getting _married_, for fuck’s sake, and I need to know if I’ll ever have you again.” 

“You’ve always had me,” Draco says, but he knows that’s not what Harry means. “I need to tell Astoria, Harry. She’ll understand, she’s always known about us, but it’s not fair to her to lie, or sneak around. As for being together, _properly, _it depends on Father.” Draco doesn’t have to look at Harry to see the disappointment in his eyes, but he does anyway, taking a hold of his hand. “Harry, I’m not cowering, or running away; this is purely unselfish. Father controls everything for as long as he breathes: the estates, the fortunes, the investments. A single signature of his could jeopardise my whole family’s future. Astoria, she’d have nothing. Scorpius would also have nothing to his name, and if he and Albus have any children, they wouldn’t either. I wouldn’t have anywhere to go, and my research isn’t enough to keep me afloat- it’s too niche, too whimsical,” Draco finishes. “Time has made Father’s heart even more bitter, if anything. He hasn’t got an ounce of forgiveness left in him.”

Harry laughs, quiet and tired. “When’s the old bastard going to die, then?” 

“Never, if he’s got any say in it.” Draco smiles sadly. “But he’s my father; I couldn’t wish death upon him if I tried.” 

“So we’ll have to wait, then,” deduces Harry.

“No,” Draco says, squeezing Harry’s hand. “No more waiting. Astoria won’t mind, she’s got a lover in Greece- they’re really quite cute together. And Mother- well, Mother’s wanted me to be with you since you asked me to marry you.” 

“And your father?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It means we’ll have to keep it quiet- really quiet, and it’ll be difficult, but if you’re willing to try…”

“Always,” says Harry, pulling Draco closer. “It’ll be like we’re teenagers again.” They’re quiet for a moment, before Harry speaks again, and Draco’s stomach drops. “What are we going to tell the boys?”

***

By the time Scorpius’ father returns, it is almost dusk. Lanterns swing from the willow trees and a soft evening breeze ripples through the Burrow’s wildflower-strewn lawns. Scorpius looks at his father carefully, but he can see no evidence of what he saw happening earlier, apart from a faint red tint to the tips of his ears. Harry, whom Scorpius is surprised to see is right next to him, looks entirely innocent, laughing easily with the other guests, smile lines crinkling behind his glasses 

Scorpius can tell when Albus notices that their fathers have returned; the body beside his becomes stiff and on-edge. “Al,” he says softly, “whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. Give your dad a moment."

Albus doesn’t take his eyes off his father, off the near imperceptible way his robes brush Scorpius’ father’s. “They’ll tell us, won’t they? They won’t- they won’t try and keep it a secret?”

Scorpius brushes his fingers over Albus’ wrist, feeling the sinuous tendons ripple under his touch. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Whatever happened, it’s between them. I just hope they know they _can _tell us.”

The last of the guests are leaving by the time Scorpius and Albus find themselves with their fathers. Only the Weasleys remain, Scorpius’ mother having left earlier- Narcissa too, lightly flushed with honeyed wine and an invitation from Molly for a floo call next week. 

“Scorpius,” starts his father, the colour gone from his cheeks and ears, “I- we must tell you two something, Harry and I.” Harry, usually so calm and unworried, has been watching Albus almost nervously. His viridian eyes seem to be telling Albus something that Scorpius can’t discern.

“I saw you and Harry, Dad,” Scorpius says gently. “It’s okay.” 

Harry’s fingers reach for Draco’s arm, a movement so imperceptible that no one but them would have noticed. Scorpius’ father has gone deathly pale.

“You don’t have to explain,” Scorpius reassures them. He’s not sure why; he wants more than anything to understand his father, to know why he kept this a secret, to know what happened between him and Albus’ father. But Scorpius also knows that his father is careful with the things close to his heart. He won’t tell Scorpius. Not yet.

A hand slips into his. Albus. Scorpius looks at him, worried he may be angry that Scorpius is so willing for them to be left in the dark. Instead, Albus seems to be wrestling with something inside himself. There’s silence for a moment before he turns to Harry and says, “I’m sorry, Dad.” 

His father looks almost startled. “For what?”

“I don’t know, I- I guess I just am.”

Harry is quiet for a moment. Then, he glances at Scorpius’ father. “I am too,” he says softly. Draco looks at Harry like he understands. It’s as clear as water. There’s history between them, profound threads of time wrought with things Scorpius can’t even begin to understand, things that make him hold onto Albus’ hand just a little bit tighter.

And they stand there, fathers and sons, until the stars join the lanterns in their light-making.


End file.
